


if i had my way i would tear this building down

by areyoumarriedriver



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-11
Updated: 2014-10-11
Packaged: 2018-02-20 16:57:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2436104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/areyoumarriedriver/pseuds/areyoumarriedriver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She sighs and looks at him, her head tilting in that way it does when she’s about to tease him. “Fine, on one condition.”</p><p>He narrows his eyes, his frame tensing as he crosses his arms and huffs. “What condition?”</p><p>“You let me cut your hair,” she grins and he groans, pushing a hand through his own hair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	if i had my way i would tear this building down

**Author's Note:**

> So I just really wanted to write fic of Carol cutting Daryl's hair. BECAUSE IT IS MY DREAM. *raises arms to the heavens* This is such fluff fic but I had super fun writing Daryl's POV. It's series 5. IDK somewhere in there lol. Mostly in my dreams, lets be real.

**_if i had my way i would tear this building down_ **

“Guess what I found?” She pops her head around the doorway of his room so quickly that he just barely stops himself from flinching in surprise. His room – well the room he’d stalked into and dropped his bag in, declaring it would do when they’d stumbled on to the place. A large estate, with wrought iron gates surrounding it, it was the sort of place he wasn’t even good enough to work at, before.

She’s leaning against the doorframe now, her eyes bright and her body betraying her excitement with the way she all but vibrates in front of him. She’s waiting for a response, so he grunts – she’s clearly going to tell him what she found, whether he asks or not. “Scissors!” She holds up her prize with a grin. “Actual, proper hair scissors – not meat shears or utility scissors. I can finally trim this,” she runs her free hand through the short soft curls on her head, “And maybe shear Carl, if I can nail him down long enough,” she chuckles and Daryl makes a noise of protest. She frowns, but he shakes his head, frustrated that he needs to explain.

“Shave his head for all I care, but you oughta leave yours as is.” He looks over at her with a shrug as the corner of her mouth curls into a smile. “I like it – curls now.” It’s as close to a compliment about her appearance as he’s ever said out loud to her. Not that he didn’t have plenty of thoughts. He had nothing but a million observations about her that lined the empty spaces in his mind. He’s spent the better part of two years watching her – he could shock the shit out of her if he ever voiced any of his thoughts. Which was mostly why he didn’t. Where would he even begin?

“I know – it’s why I want to cut it,” she offers, shrugging. “I spent so long with it so short – I guess I grew addicted to the low-maintenance. It feels heavier, and _dirtier_ all the time,” she wrinkles her nose as she speaks and he doesn’t respond, simply looking at her carefully. She sighs and looks at him, her head tilting in that way it does when she’s about to tease him. “Fine, on one condition.”

He narrows his eyes, his frame tensing as he crosses his arms and huffs. “What condition?”

“You let me cut your hair,” she grins and he groans, pushing a hand through his own hair. He’s not paid it too much attention really – it’s never been this long before, but he has better things to do with his time than sit and get groomed. Hell he barely had time to clean up regularly – and why bother when he was going to get just as fucking dirty tomorrow – let alone trim his hair. He shaved, sometimes, when he could. But only because there wasn’t any way he was growing a beard like Rick's – shit was about to take over the man’s face altogether. “It’s _terrible_ , Daryl, how can you even see? It’s got to be a hindrance at this point,” she observes carefully, not looking at him much as she speaks. “What if a walker sneaks up on you cause you couldn’t see it through all that hair?”

“My ears work just fine,” he speaks drily and she lifts her eyes from the scissors with a huff.

“Hey, if you don’t want to make a deal that’s fine. I think there’s extra candles down the hall and a mirror – I’ll cut mine first and then see if I can’t wrangle Carl-”

“Dammit, Carol,” he grumbles as he glares at her and she offers him an innocent look of confusion. “ _Fine_ , but not too short.”

“How short is too short?” She wastes no time grabbing his sleeve and dragging him down the hall to the bathroom. She lights three candles, and shoves him into a sitting position on the now defunct toilet.  She shrugs her coat off, and waves a hand at him until he follows suit, shrugging out of his vest and jacket and over shirt until he is down to his threadbare tee shirt, which he is definitely _not_ taking off. She moves closer to him, nudging his knee with her own until he plants his feet wider apart – creating a space between his knees that she slips into, her hands reaching up to comb through his hair. Her nails scrape across his scalp and he is distracted from her closeness by how god damned _good_ that feels. “My momma used to always say never date a boy with long hair.”

“You planning on courting me then?” He somehow manages to tease her, though how he is capable of completing sentences as she scrapes her fingers through his hair is beyond him. It’s like his brain has disconnected from his mouth entirely.

“Not with that haircut,” she observes with a grin, and he forces himself to still as she pulls her hands away, her nose wrinkling in distaste. “Do I want to ask the last time you’ve washed it?”

“Probably not,” he smirks and she sighs.

“I’ll do it after,” she finally concedes, and his laughter dies at the mental image of _that_. Silence falls as she hums and starts pulling at his hair, examining the lengths intently. He doesn’t speak, afraid of breaking the hush that has fallen in the room. He stares at her instead – very rarely is he afforded the chance to watch her this closely without her noticing. Her boots are muddy as hell, and her pants look like they’re about ready to give up – no worse than his own he supposes. He frowns, thinking they really ought to rummage through the place for clothes and supplies. Maybe in the morning. Or maybe she’s already done it – she found the scissors after all.

Her knife hangs at her waist, dangling from her hip like a constant. He likes this knife, the way it rings her fingers, strong and secure. The short blade, with its sharp tip – it is compact, powerful and oddly graceful, and it suits her to her bones. Her gun is missing from her belt, and he frowns, reaching up to brush his fingers over the worn leather there. She gasps softly, freezing in place for a moment before she speaks. “It’s on the dresser.” She offers softly. “Not far,” she appeases him but he’s too busy wondering what dresser. What room had she picked? It’s the first real house they’ve stayed in since Terminus. Before – god before seems forever ago now – but that winter on the road before the prison, her room had always been his room. Always. Most houses never had enough room to hold them all, and he, T and Carol would usually end up sharing space – a living room or a den or a bedroom where T would declare the sofa was fine and Daryl would lie on her floor, staring up at the edge of her bed and listening until her breathing evened out. She doesn’t say which room though – but if it’s close by, it’s close to his and that makes him feel a little better. His hand hovers in front of her waist for a moment as she starts separating his hair into sections, turning to grab a small bowl of water and wetting her fingers, in turn using them to wet his hair.

She wobbles as she spins back, and he grabs her hips, steadying her without thought. She doesn’t say anything – simply carries on until she begins trimming his hair, the steady _snip snip snip_ sound cutting through the awkward silence.

His hands stay where they are.

He frowns, willing them to move but it’s like his body has that same disconnect from his brain and his fingers just grip her tighter, marveling at the delicate bone nudging his palm and how his hand feels like it could wrap around her twice. She’s too thin, but not the way she used to be. Back on the farm she’d had the same sort of slightness about her – but then she’d looked like a good stiff breeze would carry her away. She was so light – like she was a bird, all hollow bones with no solidity to her. Waiting to be crushed.

Now she’s small, _tiny_ really, but there is steel in her bones and sinewy muscle corded around them and he can feel it in her, touch the hollow of her hip and know that she’s invincible. She has to be really, he thinks as his thumb brushes the worn fabric of her pants. The steady sound of her scissors hides how his breathing changes – shorter and shallower breaths as he tries desperately to define the scent that always clings to her. Patchouli and roses, he thinks. How the hell does she manage that when they’ve all long since gone nose blind to the constant stench of death that hangs in the humid southern air everywhere?

She leans closer, her fingers combing through the back of his hair – and rather than moving around or asking him to turn, she simply _leans_ into his shoulder, and he swallows and tries desperately not to look at her breasts, soft and _right by_ his face. He wants to close his eyes, but there is a slight gap in the front of her shirt – and he can see the faded beige lace of her bra, and there is no fucking way he is looking away from that. Or even blinking. He wants to see the pattern of that lace every time he closes his eyes for the rest of his miserable life. “Sorry,” she apologises softly and he grunts in response, his hands sliding up to her waist. He tells himself it’s to balance her, but he knows he really just wants to see if he can actually span it with his hands. His middle fingers just brush against each other in the small of her back and he clears his throat.

“Too thin,” he grumbles, shifting as he complains and thanking providence that he’d had the foresight to lay his jacket and vest across his lap. Hair falls down his back and shoulders, itches like crazy, but he is unwilling to let her go simply to brush the irritant away. He’d rather deal with it, and enjoy the feel of her ribs under his fingers. He presses his thumbs against the lowest bone of her ribcage, thinking she must be made of some indestructible material – how else could she keep a heart so big in a cage so small?

“I get by. You taking my measurements by hand now Daryl? Stop me when you get to the bust – I wanna enjoy that one,” she teases him like she always does – like him touching her is no big deal, when it feels like a pretty huge fucking deal to him. His hands freeze and he looks up at her, studying the freckles across her chest that blend with the layer of dirt and grime. Her skin looks so soft, he wants to touch it. His own boldness tonight startles him – maybe she’s like Delilah and he’s Samson, only she’s cutting all his fear and inhibitions away.

Maybe it’s that he still looks at her sometimes and his breath catches in his throat because he’s so god damn _happy_ she’s here. Alive. With them. With _him_. It feels like a miracle, all of them together again. But Carol… she feels like more than that. Like finding religion. He had been so sure he’d never see her again. And he’s never been one to believe in God or anything like that, but having lost her so many times and to keep finding her again – he believes in Carol.

So maybe his boldness isn’t surprising – it’s just that he can only lose her so many times, until he breaks – destroys the wall he’s erected between them in an effort to truly _find_ her. His hands slide up, bumping against ribs as he contemplates her collar bones. He’d broken his once, falling out of a tree when he was a dumb kid – the doctor had called it a different name, but he couldn’t remember what. “What’s this called?” He blurts the question out, his hand lifting, fingers dragging lazily along the ridge of the bone as his mind conjures images of his mouth following in their wake. She swallows, so sharply he can hear the sound of her throat constricting and releasing as their eyes meet and her hands still.

“Collar bone,” she offers softly and he shakes his head.

“Nah, there’s another word – I broke mine when I was ten. Doctor called it something else.”

“Clavicle,” she finally speaks and he smiles, because of course she knows. Clavicle. It feels like a magical word – so much more suitable for possibly one of his favourite parts of her body. _Clavicle_. His fingers draw along it, and she’s not cutting his hair anymore – all he can hear is her breathing, soft and rapid, as his gaze drags upwards, over the line of her neck.

He loves looking at her neck – loves the softness to it, loves how when she’s really dirty it highlights the lines there. It always looks so _soft_ , like it’d be the softest thing he’d ever touched in his _life._ It would be, he knows. It’s not that he’s not been with women – hell with Merle for a brother he’d gotten a prostitute for his 18 th birthday, an older lady who’d been gentle and hadn’t laughed at him once or asked why he wouldn’t take his shirt off. He’d liked her – as much as you could like a woman being paid to fuck you, he reckons. He’s been with women. But there was a world of difference between fumbled fucks in back alleys of bars and _Carol_. And he is painfully aware of that.

She’s the best thing he’s ever held in his hands, and that’s including his crossbow. “Daryl…” Her voice is breathy and his fingers finally stroke along the skin of her neck and oh god, she’s like fucking _velvet_.

“This okay?” He finally has the presence of mind to ask – he’s touching without permission, but her body is pressing in to his and she always says those _things_. But it’s not the same as permission, he knows. He pauses, waiting, and she nods quickly.

“Yes.” Her voice is soft and sure, and his chest feels too tight for his lungs all of a sudden, because that one word is so _heavy_ between them. Her hands move then, drop the scissors on the counter and trail over his shoulders and run through his now shorter hair. “I didn’t take too much,” she offers with a smile.

“I think you took everything,” he counters and she startles, looking down at him with wide blue eyes. “It’s okay though,” he shrugs. “Was always yours to take.”

“Daryl,” she draws his name out, soft and slow like the letters are kissing her mouth, one by one. “Are you sure?” She asks the question carefully and he smiles, because he feels like they have whole conversations between them that go unspoken. Like anyone else listening in would find them confusing as fuck, but she knows just what he means and he can read her like a book.

“Yeah,” he offers and they both pause then, hanging on the edge of something huge – it engulfs the room in a low hum – tension winding between their bodies that builds and builds and builds until he thinks he may suffocate, bolt, or go fucking crazy.

He does none of those things because she places her hands on his shoulders and leans down, her lips brushing against his softly. He can feel the tickle of her eyelashes against his cheek and he isn’t sure where he should put his hands, or what exactly he should be doing. He doesn’t kiss like this. Fuck, he barely kissed at all – but never like this – soft brushes of her mouth over his, like she’s just waiting for him to run scared.

He would have, two years ago.

He would have six months ago.

But he’s not the same man, and she’s not the same woman – and if he’s learned anything it’s that she thinks he’s _worth_ something – and maybe he is, just because she _thinks_ it. So he stays still, and his mouth is gentle under hers even as his hands creep up, brushing at the curls that had gotten him into all this trouble in the first place.

He’s never felt real silk in his life – but he’s felt corn silk when he ran through farmers’ fields and stole ears to eat in the bright sunshine – he thinks her hair is softer than both of those things put together. It curls around his fingers as he leans up into her, his mouth firmer, bolder as her fingers curl around the back of his neck and she hums in surprise. And he loves that hum – he feels it in his mouth and his jaw, the vibration slides down his throat and he has to pull away because he’s so damn _breathless_ , like some fucking teenager.

He gasps, and notices she is out of breath too – and his makes him grin between mouthfuls of air. “What dresser?” He asks – he needs to know where she is sleeping. So he can get her stuff, pull her back to his room. He’s not so bold as to think he’s capable of much more tonight – maybe make out like teenagers, even then he’s liable to come in his pants like some virgin – but he wants her _with_ him. He hasn’t fallen asleep to the sound of her breathing in forever, and he wants to, so badly. She blinks in surprise at his question, but smiles, the corners of her mouth quirking up as her eyes light up.

“Ours.”


End file.
